


you under my skin

by misgivings (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha Timeline, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/misgivings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take apart your head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you under my skin

Your are Dave Strider, and there is nothing special about you.

.

It's weird–that hollow feeling in your chest, the one that never seems to go away.

If you were dramatic and fond of purple prose you guess you'd say you feel like someone reached through you with ghostly, invisible hands (so much so that you didn't even know they were doing it), and stole something out of you. Some tiny, probably insignificant organ, but you still feel the empty space where it should be, despite it all.

You suppose this should cripple you, leave you bedridden and unable to stand the world around you.

But you are Dave Strider, and that means that it doesn't. That means that you can't let it. That means that you ignore it, for as long as you possibly can, and never mention it to anyone. A key dropped into acid, so that you become a lock that no one can open.

.

Sometimes you think the problem is that you made it big when you were young.

You were sitting in meetings with multi-millionaires, forging movie deals and shaking hands before you were even eighteen. You went to your first Hollywood premiere while you were still a teenager. And your twenty-first birthday party was actually crashed, and exaggeratedly reported on in more than one magazine.

You'd never call any of it a bad thing, and you don't exactly have any regrets.

Royalties and new deals pay for everything, so it's not like you're really in need of anything. Your life isn't extravagant, save for splurges, here and there, especially when it comes to getting things for your brother, but, by and large, you're comfortable.

No, you don't need anything.

But there are so many things you want, if only you could remember what they are.

.

You remember things, sometimes.

It's like–

No, it's not _like_  anything, not really. It's not something you imagine, or something you made up, or something you dreamt after eating leftover chinese food, although that's been known to happen.

It's.

Sometimes you see a flash of bright blue out of the corner of your eye, and other times you can feel a knowing look being sent your way, and then there are the times where you catch the tail end of laughter, echoing in the back of your mind.

It's a trembling feeling of loneliness that keeps you rooted right where you are, like if you leave someone will never find you. A heaviness in your chest, where words sit, waiting to be said. The way the sun seems to be the wrong color, and much too far away.

It's things you shouldn't know, but do.

It's the burning sensation of tears, the tightness in your throat, the cold feeling rushing over your entire body, even in Houston heat, when you're all alone.

You're not supposed to be alone.

There are supposed to be people who see something in you, who see right through you and make you someone.

You're supposed to have a family.

.

Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night, terrified.

Dreams of death, of being cut in half and stabbed through the chest and having your eyes burned out by a bright light, blood running like tears down your face, unable to look away.

They're not nightmares though.

Nightmares are things that have never and will never and won't ever happen.

These are dreams.

These are _memories_ , and not all of them are your own.

.

There are so many things you've forgotten to remember, like notes on a piece of scrap paper that got lost.

You know the feeling of trying to remember like no one else ever could.

An outstretched arm, grasping for something that isn't all there, reaching only the very edges of a thought, the colors of the sky or the way someone said the last part of a word.

It's so hard to remember things, but once you _do_ –once you do, you never forget.

And, in a lot of ways, that's worse.

.

You are Dave Strider, and if someone told you that you could give up everything, rewind time and jump to the point at which you were at a crossroads, between staying put and taking a risk, you'd stay right where you were.

.

Your little not-brother listens to everything you say.

You tell him only half of what you remember, while he looks at you blankly, and doesn't even think to question it. Not because he's dumb, but because he trusts you, even when he shouldn't.

He's far more analytical than you ever were, or ever will be. He likes to take things apart and put them back together, or make new things entirely. He likes to read and sometimes you have no idea what the fuck he's saying, even though you're smarter than you'd like to let on.

You tell him he's not your brother and it's not entirely a lie, because he's not your capital b Bro, not by a long shot.

He's this pale imitation, and you feel bad for thinking that.

He's his own person, as far as you can tell. He has nothing to remember, no secret past life, no clouded mind, no trouble falling asleep at night. At least not any more than a regular fifteen year old has.

The thing is–

For all his faults, your brother (the older one), was there for you.

And you.

You aren't.

You can't be.

You look at him, and it hurts. Blood on the ground, cold, dead eyes, he's gone and he's never coming back– _hurts_.

You send him checks and get him fancy presents and give him everything he could ever possibly want.

You don't need anything, but he does, and you can't give it to him. You want to, so desperately. You wish he didn't make you sick to your stomach, and leave you feeling lost and empty, but he does.

You will never be the brother he needs.

.

You forget little things, all the time.

You'll come back to the apartment with food only to find you already ordered something earlier. You'll call someone who you haven't called in weeks and they'll have to explain to you that you just called an hour ago. You'll step off of an airplane and suddenly have no idea where you are.

You'd be afraid that you're losing your mind, if you weren't so sure it was already gone.

.

The dreams aren't even dreams anymore.

They're super-imposed over what you're doing, like some sort of weird deja vu. You find yourself crying at shitty movies and collecting movie memorabilia that never interested you before. Sometimes you stop in front of fabric stores and have to snap yourself out of forlornly looking at knitting supplies. And when Halloween rolls around it takes a lot more effort than it should to not buy all the pumpkins in sight.

It feels too normal for it to be weird.

It's like your life is slowly shifting towards the right track–and you never knew it was on that wrong one, because that was _all_  you knew.

You push your new sunglasses up the bridge of your nose and look in the mirror. It's the first time you've ever liked what you've seen there.

.

Something clicks one day. Your plane is running late, harsh winds blowing outside, the sky an inky black, penetrated every so often by sharp bursts of lightning.

Like gears finally rotating into place, like there was a clock ticking down to this very moment, you stand by your suitcase, looking out the window by your terminal and clenching your hands into fists so tight you can feel the half-moon impressions your nails are making.

The rain falls outside, and you wonder if this is what it's like to feel alive.

.

You are Dave Strider, and you remember John Egbert, Jade Harley and Rose Lalonde.

The stewardess on your flight asks, in a quiet tone, if everything is alright, sir.

And you look up at her, eyes clear and mouth set in a straight line, despite your tears, and you say, "Everything is fine."

**Author's Note:**

> at this point i think alpha!dave sadstuck has been done to death, but i wanted to write it anyway.


End file.
